Waking up
by capricorn5
Summary: Based on a prompt I saw on tumblr, this is my version. I may continue it. 'A Sherlock AU were it turns out Sherlock has made up his whole life with John as a consulting detective while stuck in a coma caused by an overdose. The real John is just a kind doctor at the hospital that sits by Sherlock's bed and reads him detective stories.'


John put the book down, closing his hand in a fist. His fingers were numb, something that used to happen often after he had been shot on the left shoulder, but that was now only just a consequence of holding something for too long.

Being an army doctor, he had gathered material enough to feed his nightmares for years. Even now, that he worked at the hospital in central London, away from the sound of bombs and shots, screams caused by the patients were enough to bring it all back. The nightmares did not happen so often as before, though. And he had found out that the tremor on his hand was a lot less frequent when he was needed, when the rush of saving a life distracted him.

It had all begun a few months ago; he was waiting to cross the street, the cane helping him to stay steady. His days back then had become a blur, all the same, since he had been invalid home from Afghanistan.

He waited at the crossing for the light to turn green and looked ahead. He picked up his phone as it rang and glanced at the name on the screen. His sister. He had no will to talk to her so he just ignored the call, putting the phone back inside the pocket. That's when he sensed that he was being observed and, true enough, he was.

The stranger was just across from him. Long coat, dark-blue scarf, even as the sun shone bright and the wind felt warm. He stood still, observant and serious. John felt his green eyes scrutinizing him. The light turned green. The man crossed the street, still looking at him. Next thing John knew, a car that hadn't respected the light was running the stranger over, projecting the tall, dark-haired man several yards forward. He fell to the ground, landing in a strange angle.

John sprinted towards him. Luckily, they were just across the hospital. John helped carrying him, feeling his pulse. He was stopped by the nurses as they took the man inside, even as John tried to make them understand he was a doctor.

He waited for hours. Finally, a doctor came to talk to him.

The man was in a coma. They talked for a while. Sarah – that was the doctor's name – advised him to go home. He came back the next day. Sarah had no choice but to keep him updated. No improvement. As he left the hospital that day he found his own cane thrown against a garbage can. He had forgotten all about it. He went back and applied for a job at the hospital. Sarah gave him the job. His new journey had begun. Amongst the patients, the tremor on his hand had subsided. He felt guilty, responsible for the man who had been run over in front of his eyes.

One day, after a hard shift, John decided to visit him. There were flowers on his bedside table, even though the nurses had said he had only had one visit since he had been admitted. John gazed at him. He looked peaceful, laying on the clean hospital sheets. John pulled a chair and sat next to him. He rummaged through his backpack and found a book he used to read often, especially when worried, or when he woke up after another nightmare. It was a collection of detective stories. He held the book in his hands and cleared his throat. He started to read out loud. The sound of his own voice was strange to his own ears, but he did not stop.

When he finished the first story, the other man was obviously still unconscious. John got up and went home. He came back every single day after that.

He saw the flowers withering, but his words never did. His voice became more confident, the stories more constant. He finished the book and re-read it again. He started to change details. Then, later on, he started to tell his own stories; he started to tell them as if he was writing a journal and the stories were real. As if he was seeing them developing right in front of his eyes, instead of just sitting on that hospital chair. He gave the main character a new name – the one from the man who was lying in front of him, such a particular name, it suited: Sherlock Holmes. A name, that was all John knew about him because no one ever came around to allow him to ask more. Sherlock Holmes, as told by John Watson, was the hero. John Watson, his companion, Boswell, the story teller who narrated in the first person.

As strange as it might seem, this routine helped him. He worked at the hospital, he counted the hours but without rush, he read the stranger stories. He asked Sarah on a date; it didn't work out. He met Mary; he might be in love with her. And, strange enough, there was a chance she might be in love with him as well. His bed was less often empty, and so was his heart. His cane had never been retrieved, his hand was fine. It had been months since he had last seen his therapist. The sun was shining in London. And the man in coma moved.

John tilted his head, suddenly alert, looking at Sherlock. It was weird to think of him like that. A first and last name was all he knew and yet, for him, he was already Sherlock.

A twitch.

John was sure this time. The man's hand moved, briefly.

Again.

He saw the eyes moving as well, even closed. The heart rate went up, the machines started to race with the change.

John got up; the open book fell on the floor.

Sherlock opened his eyes. Behind the oxygen mask he gasped.

The nurses came, getting John out of the way instinctively. Between the noise they made, moving around the barely awoken man, John's eyes met Sherlock's. They locked on each other. He saw the man's hand reaching out for him. John's heart jumped on his chest when the man said the word. A hoarse voice, but clear enough to avoid any doubts. John.

Somehow, the man was calling his name. The nurse tried to calm him down when he made an effort to get up. He repeated John's name. Then, too tired to continue, he stopped fighting and looked at the ceiling. John came closer and without really knowing why, held Sherlock's hand in his.

The other faced him again, his green eyes scrutinizing him once more in the same way they had on the day of the accident, so long ago. But there was something different this time. It was as if he was recognizing him as opposed to trying to figure him out. John smiled. Sherlock, with a faint glimpse of what would turn out to be a baritone's voice, asked.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"


End file.
